The Language of Flowers
by Rivaille D'Anzelotte
Summary: He keeps getting flowers at his grave.


**A/N: **Wanted to try something different, hope you enjoy this!

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**The Language of Flowers**

He believed in the saying "Pity the living instead of the dead", and at his supposed 'death' he hung onto that belief like it was his last lifeline. As the years wear on and his vigilante escapades all over the world stoked unwanted attention, it was safe to say that he pitied those who are even alive to incur his wrath. His conquest to uncover the truth of Overwatch's downfall continued on, friend and foe remained a stranger in his eyes.

On his first year, he returned to his grave, not to reminisce, but to hide from a criminal syndicate who were adamant on hunting him down. It was for a brief moment, in the darkness while he tried to catch his breath, that he spotted a flower on top of his grave stone. It was too surreal; a dark crimson rose sat lonesome on the stone. He figured that some people still thought of him as a hero, and that thought sickened him. With rage he crushed the flower with his fist, and went on his way to find a car to steal.

It was a few months later, that when he passed by a flower shop in London, that he saw the same crimson rose in a bouquet on full-display, a card at the bottom saying "Flowers for Mourning".

-0-0-

Was he happy that he 'died'? That naive, charismatic, blonde, blue-eyed fella who thought he could take on the world on his shoulders and still look good for the press to snap a photo of? Maybe. He certainly didn't miss having to kiss the UN's ass all the time, or enduring the painful conundrum of the protesters outside of the base. The world despised him anyways, and while he, in turn, could hate them as well, he couldn't. His moral compass may have shattered but duty above all else stamped right through. He is not Jack Morrison, Strike Commander of Overwatch anymore. He is Soldier: 76, the wanted vigilante in search of true justice.

On his second year, he returned to his grave, a little calmer and a little bitter as age wore him on. He meant to just pass by, before hitchhiking a train to the next state, when he saw another flower, a full bouquet this time, of beautiful pinks and whites. He mused that some people still don't know when to give up, and left the flowers alone. A month later, while camping at the mountains in Pakistan, a traveler pointed out to him the same pink and white flowers littered across the plain called Sweet Peas, the symbol of goodbye and farewell in the language of flowers.

-0-0-

Sometimes he thought this vigilante thing would never last. He often blamed his age for it, wondering when will be the day he'll finally break down due to his old bones and weakening sanity. Sometimes they come in the form of danger, such as being strapped to the front seat of a car while sitting in the middle of the train tracks. It was mostly thanks to his super soldier strength, and the rest to his luck, that he was able to survive that, but Jack knew he couldn't rely on those two for long.

The third year he returned in the form of an accident; he jumped off a plane and miraculously survived after dropping into the icy cold waters of a nearby lake. He didn't know where he was going, too preoccupied with the cold settling in his bones, his legs unconsciously reaching the sight of his gravestone. He was dumbfounded to find purple flowers in a vase, reminding him of the lilacs at Gerard and Amelie's wedding day. He didn't need to go around and know what they mean: "Good luck to a new beginning."

He was startled out of his wits when he heard a voice, "Sir, are you alright?" Immediately, he swiveled around, hand quickly going for his sidearm, to see someone wearing a gardening hat and holding a large broom on their hands. The keeper of this side of the cemetery perhaps?

"No, I'm fine." He gruffly said before sprinting away, concerned that a civilian has spotted him.

-0-0-

Each year, he thought of the flowers and why on earth someone would waste their time on a problematic hero. It couldn't be one of his fans, right? He remembered, during the glory days, he'd receive fan mail from teens younger than Oxton, and men and women who were definitely older than him. All expressed their admiration and love and at the time, he thought it was ridiculous. He still thinks it's ridiculous. After all, he's just a soldier. Surely they would've heard of the allegations held against him and Overwatch. Anyone would be willing to drop an Overwatch operative in hiding just for the reward money.

He decided to be a tad bit crafty, and visited his grave a week later just to see if anyone still cared. In his heart, he allowed a tiny spark of hope that someone out there still believes in their mission for peace, no matter how convoluted it was in the first place. He was still hiding from the local syndicates when he arrived at dawn, only to be disappointed at the appearance of an empty grave. No flower, no vase.

He wanted to kick himself; of course, nobody cares about a dead guy. Not anymore.

As he stood there, contemplating about his next move, a familiar voice sounded behind him, "Ah, you're here again."

He hesitated turning around to acknowledge them, but he nodded curtly. "Not surprised to see an old timer visit an empty grave?"

"No, more like I'm surprised to see Soldier: 76 around these parts."

He growled at that, but he didn't offer any more words. A civilian would try to apprehend him to the authorities, but like hell would he not resist at all. He waited for the signs of apprehension appearing on their face, but surprisingly there were none.

In fact, the keeper wasn't looking at him, but the grave in front of them. "This man was a hero, not like the others here. And yet, you don't see enough flowers in his grave."

"He wasn't worth any flowers." He replied, only to see a flash of hurt cross the gardener's features before it disappeared completely. "Of course he was. Last week, there were red and yellow zinnias on his grave. I just threw them out after they've wilted yesterday."

He was quiet after the outburst, opting to replay the whole thing in his head. Somebody is still giving him flowers?

After a long moment of silence, of him staring hard at the ground and the gardener looking off into the rising sun in the sky, he mumbled quietly, "...What did they mean?"

"Mean what?"

"The Zinnias." Another brief pause.

"Remembrance, and steadfastness."

-0-0-

As time went on, he found some semblance of the justice he was searching for. The infamous assassin and guardian of Anubis, Shrike, turned out to be one of his long-dead best friends and former second-in-command, Ana Amari. After their escapades in Egypt, the two have agreed to work together again in search of answers. Ana had aged beautifully; though the same cannot be said for the old soldier, who admitted that he longed for the domestic life. The both wanted to return to their families, but they decided that the world isn't safe yet for their loved ones.

On the fifth anniversary of the fall of Overwatch, Jack, at Ana's insistence, visited his grave again. They were in the area and they might as well come see. He remembered, during his funeral, how his parents wanted his grave to be situated at Bloomington, Indiana, his home; not in a cemetery of heroes, not when the body wasn't even found. He thought how funny and sad it was that they left Gabe's grave alone, knowing full well how much he meant to their son. Five years later, and that day still held no special meaning to him whatsoever.

Except, maybe, for that one thing that continued to bother him.

When the both of them arrived, some time nearing dusk, he stopped dead at a figure approaching his gravestone. Ana, having noticed this, held tightly to her gun. "Who is that, Jack?" She said hurriedly as they hid behind some trees.

"I have no idea." His mind was in hyperdrive and his heart was beating so loudly. Could this be the person who was giving him flowers for all these years? He wanted so badly to find out who they are, to ask why they're still doing this, when his legs suddenly moved on its own.

He walked briskly, and then he started running, and he didn't stop until he was face to face with the gardener of the cemetery.

He was out of breath, not from the run but from his thoughts all jumbled up, "W-why..? You, you know what happened..!" He roared, his voice echoing across the place. He should be more quiet, more respectful, but damn them all to hell!

The gardener stared at him, too surprised to even form words, when they frowned ever so slightly. "I don't know what you're talking about, vigilante."

"That man was no hero-"

"He was a hero," They countered, their voice ringing loudly. "And he saved my life and countless others. I don't care what the world thought about him; he was a good person. Too good for this world I dare say."

He didn't like to hear those words, but his tongue stilled, too distressed and bewildered to think that this is even happening. He wasn't paying attention when the gardener turned their back on him and continued to move towards the grave.

In a gentle, peaceful motion, they settled down a tuft of white chrysanthemums from the inside of their jacket, slightly crushed from the inner folds. They took their time to dust the grave before standing up to admire it; the soldier behind them sulked quietly. "They never found the body, some say it got crushed under all the debris, others say he survived. The latter...saddens me-" They didn't see him flinch. "-but I find it understandable."

"The world wanted him dead when he failed to keep them safe, when even with his abilities and his comrades, they've all forgotten that he is human as well. I'd hide too, even change my name and my essentials, just so society won't reject me again. It's not good, but it's the most human thing to do."

They stood up and looked back at the soldier, a look of sincerity evident on their face. "I don't know what you thought of him, Soldier, but you can agree with me that if he were alive, he'd still be fighting for what he believes in, right?" They said, a gentle smile caressing their features.

When Jack didn't say anything, the gardener thought it was time for them to leave and start work, when his gruff voice sounded up again, "Chrysanthemums, what do they mean?"

The gardener paused, surprised at that type of question, before sighing contentedly. "Loyalty to one another. I think it's my way of saying that, I _do_ still believe in Jack Morrison."

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**A/N**: I couldn't use the horizontal line between paragraphs because it looked ugly as hell. Had to resort to something old school, hope it doesn't bother you so much!

Cheers!


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